Many Meetings
by WalkingInTalaria
Summary: A series of short stories in which some slain First Age elves (and others) meet each other again in the Halls of Mandos. Some reunions are more pleasant than others. Celegorm, Finwë, Celebrimbor, Fëanor, Morgoth, Huan, the Ambarussa, and Caranthir have joined their ranks in addition to those shown below.
1. Chapter 1: Glorfindel

**Many Meetings**

 **Chapter 1**

 **My very first story here, so please be gentle with your reviews. Constructive criticism and corrections are always appreciated!  
Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion or any of its characters. If I did, I would be playing with Elrond and Elros, not writing wacky fanfictions.  
**

Ecthelion was practically smirking as his soul flew to the halls of Mandos. Oh, he was sorry for Glorfindel, but it was just too funny. They were going to cause a few thousand interesting years in the Halls, indeed.

After the few seconds it took to soar over the Sundering Sea, Ecthelion's spirit landed with a bump at the threshold of Mandos. Immediately a tall Maia in a black tunic appeared in front of him and quietly offered to escort him to the Lord Namo. The dark Doomsman of the Valar explained the code of conduct in his halls and quickly waved him off as another dozen spirits appeared with their Maia escorts. Ecthelion was left alone.

After a few minutes of searching, he found Glorfindel trying to look inconspicuous as he read a history of Mandos. Sadly, because of his long, shining, golden hair, Glorfindel was always rather conspicuous, especially in the dim gloom of Mandos. As he heard Ecthelion approaching, he whipped his head up and shot him a threatening glare. "Do not say it!" he growled.

Ecthelion looked as innocent as a newborn elf. "I never said a word," he replied primly. "I merely came to enquire after your welfare after Gondolin. You fought an awe-inspiring battle with that Balrog."

Glorfindel looked both relieved and apprehensive. "So you saw that?" he asked a little nervously. He fiddled with the corner of his book, and Ecthelion could see he was hoping the answer would be negative.

Ecthelion decided to disappoint him, so he nodded casually. "Oh yes, I saw the whole thing before I was distracted by Gothmog. Is your head still sore from that fall?"

Glaring, Glorfindel retreated into icy politeness. "My head is quite fine, thank you for asking." He looked nearly ready to burrow into his book again and hide behind its sheltering cover. Ecthelion refused to give him that opportunity. Relieving Glorfindel of the book, he continued the conversation.

"You know, I was thinking that your hair would look especially good tied back in the new style of warrior braids that appeared in the last few dozen years. I wondered if you might like to try it," Ecthelion continued smoothly. Not quite satisfied with the death glare he was being presented by Glorfindel, he smacked himself and went on, "Oh, I beg your pardon; I already suggested it to you. Right before the battle, I believe?"

Suddenly Glorfindel dropped the glare and smiled warmly at Ecthelion. "Yes, you did, as a matter of fact. Just before Gothmog drowned you in your own fountain, was it not?" he said with a casual air that rivalled Ecthelion's. Or rather, it rivalled that which Ecthelion had possessed moments ago, since that elf was at the moment slack-jawed with astonishment.

"You saw that?" he asked, horrified.

Glorfindel was enjoying himself very obviously, but his tone was still light. "Oh yes, I was not quite dead when Thorondor picked me up. I saw the whole thing. Maeglin especially enjoyed hearing that about that."

If Ecthelion's horror of a moment before was a black pit, his current state was a bottomless abyss that surpassed Ungoliant's webs, Morgoth's deepest dungeons, and the void beyond the Walls of the World. He launched himself furiously at Glorfindel, tackling him off the bench where they sat and throwing him hard onto the floor. Glorfindel's amusement quickly changed to alarm.

"What in the sweet name of Eru Iluvatar – Ecthelion, calm yourself! I was joking, I was joking; I never told anyone else!" he shouted, panicking, as his friend attacked him.

Ecthelion sat up abruptly. "You did not?"

Glorfindel shook his head, picking himself up tenderly off the stone floors of the Halls. "No, even I am a better friend than that. Of course I did not."

Ecthelion sat down, a little shame-faced, on the bench. "Oh…I beg your pardon for attacking you, then," he murmured.

Grinning, Glorfindel shoved him gently. "I should not have teased you so. Come along; let us see if we can get our deaths excised from Vaire's tapestries. I had heard from other reborn warriors that she is often quite kind about that."

Talking quietly about this, that, and the other, the two friends made their way down one of the many dim passageways of Mandos's halls.


	2. Chapter 2: Maeglin

**Chapter 2**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion or any of the following characters. How I wish I did...**

Maeglin's spirit left his body after the third and final bounce against the wall of Gondolin. He was quickly pulled away to the Halls of Mandos, where he arrived after a few seconds of travel at a speed that would have taken his breath away, had he still needed to breathe. A black-clad Maia quickly escorted him to Lord Namo, who rattled off a short code of conduct before moving on to the next spirit. Maeglin supposed there was more traffic than was normal due to the attack on Gondolin. He decided to find a quiet place in the Halls where he would not have to deal with dead elves accusing him of being a traitor and destroying their city.

Maeglin was both lucky and unlucky in his choice. Lucky, because the corner he had found was quiet, dark, and empty as far as he could tell; unlucky, because there was another elf who also enjoyed quiet, dark, and relatively empty spaces. Maeglin could barely stifle a shriek as his long-dead father rose from a chair in the darkest area of the corner. "Greetings, my son," was all Eol said before breaking off a leg of the chair and brandishing it threateningly at his errant offspring. Maeglin really did shriek this time before he summoned up the good sense to run.

Ecthelion and Glorfindel were nearly knocked down as the two hurtled through the corridors of Mandos's halls. Maeglin was shouting in the hopes that someone would come to help him; Eol was shouting insults and threats at his fleeing son. A few Maiar joined the procession, racing after Eol and Maeglin to restrain both of them. A few elves of Gondolin had recognized Maeglin and had joined the race, although they were more inclined to help Eol than assist the Maiar in catching him. The whole affair was very like a hunting party, with elves hallooing and shouting and dashing around sharp corners at breakneck speeds.

Maeglin was completely terrified. All his ideas of Mandos's halls as a quiet, restful, dark place were apparently wrong. "Morgoth take that Valar-blasted -" he began to mutter, but here his grumblings were broken off by a heavy fall onto the stone pavements. He noted with relief that his pursuers had also taken a tumble, but his relief was short-lived as he looked up and saw a tall woman with an aura of power about her that only Valar and Valier possessed. To be sure, this aura of power was somewhat diminished by the fact that she was holding a ball of yarn, a pair of knitting needles, and a half-finished item which resembled a tacky Yule scarf that nevertheless radiated power, but Maeglin still knew that he was looking at Vaire, spouse of Namo. He gulped.

Vaire raised an eyebrow at him. "Sacrilege, Maeglin?" she asked. Maeglin gulped again and lowered his eyes. Then he emitted a muffled squawk as he felt the end of a chair leg tap him on the shoulder. Vaire clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Eol, if Namo and I have told you once we've told you a thousand times that you are not to threaten other guests, even if they _are_ your treacherous, disobedient, morally deficient progeny. Now stop this foolishness at once," she said sternly. Maeglin winced very slightly under the flow of adjectives. Eol looked as though he had heard it all before, which, as Maeglin later reflected, was probably the case. However, even Eol lost some of his composure at Vaire's next announcement. "Now, you two are going to sit here and work things out until you are at the very least a passable excuse for appropriate filial and parental love. The only decision you are allowed to make about this is whether you are going to sit quietly and talk things through like reasonable elves, or whether I will have to tie you to a couple of chairs."

Eol, looking very out of sorts, agreed grudgingly. Maeglin agreed on the condition that his father was not allowed to break his head open with the chair leg as soon as they were alone. There was an awkward silence for a few minutes as Vaire herded the other elves and Maiar out of the hall. Finally Maeglin offered a suggestion. "Could we merely pretend to ' _show affection for one another'_ while there are others around? I have no love for you, and I will wager that you have none for me."

Eol considered this. "Very well, my devious child. We are agreed on this, at least," he said. "But do not expect me to restrain myself if you, I, and a sword are alone in a room together."

Maeglin nodded understandingly. "On the contrary, I will race you to it so that I may have the pleasure of killing you myself, if we are able to kill each other at all in this place," he added as an afterthought.

Vaire, outside the hall, continued knitting the scarf that had an aura of power, satisfied that she had done her best to bring peace to her husband's halls.

 **Suggestions for improvement and corrections are always welcome!**


	3. Chapter 3: Gil-galad

**Chapter 3**

 **Disclaimer: As anyone who has read the first two chapters can tell you, I do not own the Silmarillion.**

Gil-galad did not particularly enjoy dying, but he supposed that a few centuries of blissful quiet in Mandos's halls would be good for him. Iluvatar forbid that he was a _coward_ , but one tires of fighting quickly, even if one is a Noldo of the House of Finwe, and the Halls seemed like a good place to get some much-needed rest before he would inevitably be reborn.

So Gil-galad, former High King of the Noldor, relaxed and allowed his spirit to leave his body. Soon he landed on the doorstep to the Halls. A harried-looking Maia swooped down on him, rushed him to Lord Namo for the introduction and code of conduct, and swooped away again to fetch another soul. Apparently quite a few elves were coming in from the battle.

Gil-galad wandered away down one of the many halls, looking for a peaceful bench somewhere on which he could take a rest and think over his life, as every good soul ought. Or, he tried to, because every quiet bench within what seemed like a mile of the main hall was already occupied. He found himself wandering farther and farther into the Halls, waiting until he saw the perfect spot. Finally he spotted a small cushioned bench sitting against the tapestry-covered walls. The area looked calm and quiet, and the bench seemed comfortable. Gil-galad sank gratefully down upon it and closed his eyes.

"Here he is!" A voice interrupted his musings. "I found him!" There was a rush of thudding feet on the flagstones, and Gil-galad opened his eyes to see his long-dead great-grandfather appear. From various doors and passageways, he could see other relatives come running. There was his father, and his grandfather, and his grandfather's half-brother, and his grandfather's half-brother's son – merciful Iluvatar, how many family members was he going to have to see, anyway? Maedhros was smirking; that never meant anything good.

Finwe looked him up and down. "Where have you been, my valiant descendant?" he asked. "We've quite literally been waiting ages for your arrival." Feanor snorted. Finwe ignored the interruption and continued. "We have one question for you, and then you may return to your heroic repose," he said. "How did you die? Did you grow weary of life or die in battle?"

Gil-galad looked confused, but answered truthfully enough, "I was killed in battle."

Feanor and Maedhros clapped each other heartily on the back as Finwe, Fingolfin, and Fingon reluctantly handed over a few small tokens. "We told you!" Maedhros shouted exultantly, his smirk even wider.

Gil-galad asked his father somewhat hesitantly, "What did they tell you?"

Fingon grumbled, but answered, "Apparently when your grandfather arrived, your step-great-uncle pointed out that the High Kings of the Noldor have an alarming tendency to die violent deaths. Your great-grandfather, your grandfather, and I bet that there would be at least one king to arrive here in a non-violent manner. We just lost."

Gil-galad looked offended. "You mean that you were betting on the manner of my demise?" he asked, sounding properly outraged.

Finwe, who had overheard the conversation, nodded ruefully. "It appears that when we are all reborn again, I will be forced to run through the streets in flowing pink robes. My sorrow is only relieved by the knowledge that these two will be forced to accompany me," he sighed, accompanying the last statement with a wave in the general direction of Fingolfin and Fingon.

The only response Gil-galad could make to that was, "I hope I am not reborn by then, if only to save my eyes from the searing images they will be otherwise forced to witness."

There was silence in the halls for several minutes. Gil-galad began to hope that his family would leave him in peace to reflect on his life and prepare to be reborn. However, this was not the case. They leaned against the walls or sat on the floor, each apparently lost in his own thoughts. Gil-galad tried to close his eyes and think again, but his was the sort of family you never want to close your eyes on. Finally Feanor spoke. "I propose another wager!" he announced. Gil-galad, showing the good sense so sadly absent in much of his family, got up and ran for his un-life.

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	4. Chapter 4: Maedhros

**Chapter 4**

 **Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own the Silmarillion or any of its characters. Iluvatar knows, I wish I did.  
**

Maedhros would have enjoyed falling more if he was not still firmly clutching a jewel that felt as though it was incinerating his hand, but some things couldn't be helped. He fell for quite a long way, leaving plenty of time for reflection. _Was this really such a good idea?_ he asked himself. Immediately he realized that, no, absolutely none of what he was doing was a good idea. Kinslaying _again_? Yes, that was a bad idea. Stealing his father's jewel, which apparently he had no right to? Yes, that was a bad idea. But given that he had done the first two, the third seemed fairly reasonable. He just had time to wonder what Maglor was doing with his Silmaril, and whether it was burning him too, before his spirit jumped out of his body with a jolt and began its travel towards the Halls of Mandos.

Maedhros was never able to find out how his family had known the exact time of his death, but he assumed it had involved quite a bit of Vala-wheedling from the most convincing ones of his family, namely his father. However it had happened, a dozen or so members of his family had got together a welcoming party for him. He had to admit it made him feel much better about dying. Finwe and Feanor were wearing colorfully striped dunces' caps, and somehow someone, he supposed one of his brothers, had glued three obviously fake jewels to the front of it. Feanor had no knowledge of this, or there would be blood on the floors.

As soon as his spirit slowed and halted on the threshold, the welcoming party began to sing, accompanied by one or two flutes and a badly-tuned harp.

 _Welcome to Mandos, dear brother!_

At least, "brother" was the prevailing word, but the end of the line was a jumble as some people said nephew, others said cousin, Feanor went with son, and Maeglin omitted the "dear" to give himself more time to say "Kinslaying second cousin." The song progressed anyway.

 _We hope you enjoy your time here!_

 _These halls are a wonderful dwelling,_

 _And really, there's nothing to fear!_

Maedhros was about to snort and correct them, when they changed from the ragged sing-song melody to something slightly faster and louder.

 _Except for brothers, mothers, aunts and cousins_

 _Of all the poor Teleri that are dead!_

 _Except for antisocial Dark Elves and Elenwe!_

 _Who all would really like to have your head!_

Maedhros reflected that the song would have been in terribly bad taste were they all alive. His reflections were interrupted by a hearty clap on the back from Fingon. "Welcome to your new home," his cousin said cheerfully. "It really is a marvelous place," he continued. "But we were not joking about the Dark Elves; you have to watch out for Maeglin and Eol. And you will want to stay away from the Teleri for a while; they still have not forgiven you about the Kinslaying business. We Noldor generally avoid them whenever possible."

Maedhros nodded, then looked around the gathering, where dead elves were setting out the supplies for a traditional elven welcoming party. "Who is here?" he asked curiously.

Fingon looked around, counting elves off on his fingers. "Your father, all your brothers – except Maglor, of course – Grandfather, Father, Aredhel, and that blasted brother-in-law and nephew of mine, but I may have missed one or two. Ah, here they come now."

Feanor, closely followed by his five other sons, drew up alongside them. Maedhros managed a shaky smile. "It is good to see you…alive, Father," he finally said. "I am afraid your Silmarils are in rather unfortunate places now."

Feanor shrugged. "Well, so long as they are not being handled by any evil powers I do not particularly mind. After all, I am not going to be reborn in the near future, or even the far future, so it matters little to me anymore. I am curious as to where you left it, though."

Maedhros was looking somewhat sheepish. "Maglor and I stole them from Eonwe after the great battle. We may or may not have done more kinslaying…" Feanor sighed. Maedhros continued hurriedly. "However, those jewels of yours considered us unworthy of holding them, and began scorching our hands. Therefore I took mine and jumped down a fiery chasm. I do not know what Maglor has done with his."

He heard snickers as one of his brothers whispered something to the rest. Singling out the offender – of course it would be Caranthir – he gave him the look he had carefully cultivated from dealing with his younger brothers. Caranthir grinned cheekily at him.

"Pray tell, what amuses you so?" Maedhros asked casually.

Caranthir's grin grew even wider. "Oh, I was merely remarking to our brothers that it is wonderful that you have finally joined us – 'taken the plunge,' as I believe some mortals term it," he replied.

Feanor tried, with little success, to transform his laugh into a cough. Maedhros glared at his family. "Am I not granted peace even in death?" he begged of the skies. Feanor shook his head.

"It is my painful duty to inform you, my son," he said sympathetically, "that no peace can be found in these halls. At least, not while our family has taken up residence in them."

Maedhros's groan of despair shook the very foundations of the Halls.

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	5. Chapter 5: Celegorm

**Chapter 5  
**

 **Disclaimer: While I would be flattered if anyone mistook me for Tolkien, I am not. Hence my writing fanfiction, not more books.**

After his unfortunate welcome party, Maedhros began catching up with his brothers. In exchange for a summary of the highlights in the Outer Lands, he requested a report of their conduct since their deaths. Amrod and Amras were the easiest to talk to; they had merely been fooling about with other young elves and causing mayhem. Curufin shuffled his feet and admitted that he had spent most of his time plotting with their father in a corner. Caranthir refused to elaborate on his vague statement, "brooding in the dark." Celegorm, however, had apparently been interacting with the other spirits quite a bit. Maedhros learned that Celegorm was getting to know the other two-thirds of their family, as well as a few other elves. He was relating a conversation with an elf named Beleg who was good with bows when Maedhros interrupted him.

"Did you ever apologize to Elured and Elurin?" he asked suddenly. Celegorm muttered something incomprehensible. Maedhros sighed. "I shall take that to mean you have not. Very well, we shall find them and you shall apologize for your servants' unforgivable actions."

Celegorm began to whine. "Why must I apologize? I was already dead, if I may remind you, at the hands of their father!"

For a moment, Maedhros was strongly reminded of the small elf child he had grown up with and always felt responsible for. He ignored the feeling; there were some things that needed to be done regardless. He continued firmly, "You must apologize because you are responsible for your followers' actions, whether or not they acted on your orders. Now come with me and stop whining."

Celegorm groaned, but stood up, albeit reluctantly. After several hours of fruitless searching, Celegorm was looking relieved, and Maedhros, while still determined, was running out of ideas. Finally the ever-helpful Feanor suggested that they ask Namo for directions. Now Maedhros was looking relieved, and Celegorm was disappointed.

They finally found Elured and Elurin playing together under the watchful eyes of Dior and Nimloth. The couple seemed ready to snatch up their children and run at the sight of the Feanorions.

Maedhros poked his brother none too gently in the shoulder. "Get on with it," he hissed.

Staring at his feet, Celegorm muttered, "I apologize for my servant's disgraceful behavior in," he cleared his throat nervously, "abandoning your sons to die in the wilderness. I humbly beg your pardon for their horrific actions."

Four spirits stared at them, rather shocked. Elured was the one to break the silence. "And will he promise never to do it again and be good afterwards?" he piped up.

Elurin found his voice as well. "And will his mama pop him over the head with the spoon for being naughty?" he asked, looking to Nimloth for confirmation.

Celegorm suddenly smiled. "Yes, I promise to be good and never to do it again as long as I live," he told the twins seriously. "But my mama never popped me on the head with a spoon; she was a smith and she used her big hammer!"

Elured and Elurin looked properly horrified by this. "We promise we will never tell her," Elured whispered loudly. "Where is she?"

Celegorm's smile faltered somewhat. "She is…not here," he said sadly. "I have not seen her in a long time."

If such a thing were possible, Elured and Elurin looked even more horrified by this revelation. Elurin promptly replied, "Then our mama can adopt you, like she adopted Kitty! Our kitty was lonely because her mama was gone, but our mama said she would adopt her, and now she can adopt you too!" Maedhros and Dior struggled to contain their laughter at the suggestion that Nimloth adopt one of the kinslaying sons of Feanor, then abruptly straightened their faces as soon as each realized what the other was doing.

Celegorm smiled a little at the two. "Yes, I think I would like that very much, if she would not mind having another son," he said.

Unexpectedly, Nimloth answered his smile with a small one of her own. "Yes, I will adopt him," she told her sons. "Celegorm is your older brother now; do you like that?" Elured and Elurin nodded eagerly.

Maedhros sighed wearily. "By the Valar! And now I must explain to my father that he has fallen into polygamy as well!" he exclaimed.

Vaire's caustic "Sacrilege, Maedhros?" was nearly drowned by Namo's echoing chuckle and the laughter of five elven spirits **.  
**

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**


	6. Chapter 6: Finwë

**Chapter 6**

 **Disclaimer: Honestly, why do I even bother? The whole point of this site is for people who _aren't_ the authors to pretend that they are.**

Finwe was rather worried as his spirit flew towards the Halls of Mandos. He was particularly worried because only Iluvatar knew what his son would do when he found out about the theft of his precious jewels, and of course his father's murder. Finwe could always trust Fingolfin and Finarfin to be reasonable and think things through, but the Spirit of Fire was very aptly named.

A very distressed Maia ushered him in, looking as though he would prefer to be somewhere else, and handed him an orientation booklet. Namo was nowhere to be seen. Skimming through the booklet, Finwe noticed that he had been provided with a map of the major halls, along with a few locations he might enjoy. A few quiet nooks as yet undiscovered were starred, as well as the position of a few of his friends who had died with him. What both alarmed and elated him, however, was a large silver star in a hall not far from the one in which he stood. A little label above it read, in a flowing script he recognized as his son's new Tengwar, the name "Miriel."

Finwe braced himself and hoped for the best. After all, he had stood up to the most feared Vala in all of Aman, had he not? Although, since the truth must be told, he also died in that encounter. But regardless, it would be good to see Miriel again after so long, even if he did have to explain the incident with Indis. So he grasped his map more firmly and set off at a run to find his wife.

He met Miriel half-way, rocking a little as she fell into his arms. "I missed you, my love," they said at almost exactly the same moment. After a few minutes standing there, they sat down on a convenient bench. Finwe rather irreverently pulled his wife onto his lap. Miriel laughed and hugged him. "How did you get here?" she finally asked.

"Melkor killed me," Finwe replied. "Also he robbed us and took Feanor's favorite jewels."

Miriel seemed unconcerned by the news of Melkor's thefts, but Finwe supposed that she was rather detached from current events. She was much more interested in their son. "How is Feanor getting along?" she asked. "He was a dear little baby, though he took a lot out of me."

Finwe muffled a chuckle. "That he did. Feanor is doing quite well, except for a few personality disorders that I am sure time will correct. He has a strange love for jewels. He made three in particular that he treats like three children. That reminds me, Feanor is quite the expert smith by now; you should have seen some of his creations. He settled down with old Mahtan's daughter, that nice young lady Nerdanel, and they have seven children, all boys." Miriel hummed happily.

There was a great deal more catching-up that needed to be done, but Finwe and Miriel were in no hurry. Soon afterwards, Feanor joined them, and there was a great deal more catching-up to do. Miriel was somewhat unsettled by the Oath, but after a while it was forgotten. Finwe never mentioned Indis, Fingolfin, and Finarfin. Feanor was touchy on the subject of his step-family and refused to bring it up, which Finwe was thankful for.

Then the inevitable happened. One day there was a massive inrush of elven spirits. The halls were packed as Maiar bustled to and fro guiding parties off into less crowded areas. Namo was worn thin as a hair. Feanor had gone off to see if any of his friends and relatives were coming in. Finwe and Miriel managed to escape the confusion for a quiet, secluded hall, when Finwe heard the distant pounding of feet. After another minute, Fingolfin son of Finwe dashed up and skidded to a halt in front of his father.

"My dear, do you know this elf?" Miriel asked him in some confusion. Finwe earnestly prayed that the floor would open up and swallow him in that instant. Unfortunately for him, no such thing occurred.

Fingolfin suddenly noticed Miriel. He bowed and greeted her, but quickly returned to his nervous parent. "Hello, Father," he said eagerly. "It gives me great joy to see you again, although" – he winced – "I would that dying was not required as payment for the pleasure."

Miriel, increasingly impatient at the lack of an explanation for such seemingly inexplicable behavior, finally asserted herself. "My lord," she told Fingolfin, with great politeness, "you will forgive me if I interrupt; my husband and I have much to discuss." Securing Finwe's arm gently but firmly, she towed him into a small alcove which Finwe could have sworn was not there five minutes ago. He took this as a sign that the Valar supported Miriel in the matter, so he came along meekly enough.

"Finwe, dear, why is there an elf who is most certainly not Feanor addressing you as 'Father'?" Miriel asked quietly.

Finwe gulped, resigned himself to a second painful and bloody death, and replied bravely, "Miriel, my love…well…I remarried."

"What!"

There followed an explanation of sorts, which satisfied Miriel somewhat. She still had a few questions for her husband, however.

"Did Feanor approve of this Indis woman?" Miriel asked.

Hundreds of memories rushed through Finwe's head at this question: Feanor tussling on the grass with Fingolfin as Finarfin tried to separate them; Feanor coating his half-brothers' shoes with extract of poison ivy donated by Vana; Feanor fighting with his half-brothers in the woods; Feanor drugging Indis's tea; Feanor fighting with his half-brothers by the beach. "He never took to the idea very well," Finwe admitted.

Miriel snorted in a most unladylike manner. "Of course not." After a few minutes, she asked, "Did you still love me?"

Finwe, caught by surprise, stammered out a very eloquent, "What?"

Miriel sighed. "It is a simple question, Finwe. Did you or did you not continue to love me after I departed?"

Finwe thought about it, determined to give a truthful reply. "I believe I did," he finally said.

And Miriel was content.

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 **More Noldor getting themselves into trouble!**

 **Also I'm beginning to run out of ideas, so suggestions for dead elves you would like to see featured are welcome. Characters must be confirmed dead; for example, Maglor is out.**


	7. Chapter 7: Celebrimbor

**Chapter 7**

 **Disclaimer: If I were Tolkien, or if I owned Middle Earth, Bagginshield and Kiliel would not be here. Draw your own conclusions.**

 _That accursed Maia!_ Celebrimbor's dying thoughts earned him a reproving glance from the Maia who escorted him to Lord Namo. "Not you," he added quickly. The Maia smiled and nodded agreeably.

Lord Namo was not at all what Celebrimbor was expecting. He was expecting a great, dark, imposing, terrifying Doomsman who would condemn him for his crimes against all elves the world over. True, what he saw was a great, dark, imposing, terrifying Doomsman – or he would have been, if he were not holding Vaire in his lap and helping her untangle a skein of yarn that had been twisted around on itself by young elf's spirit. Celebrimbor could hardly tell whether he was expected to kneel in awe or smile at scene. He decided to do both.

Namo seemed to notice him for the first time. "Welcome to my Halls, Celebrimbor!" he said, his voice echoing around and bouncing off the rafters. Celebrimbor could have sworn he saw waves rippling through the air at the Vala's voice. It was quite as doom-laden as he had heard his uncles describe it, and it left Celebrimbor barely keeping himself from curling up into a wretched ball of guilt. Then the moment was ruined as Vaire gently smacked her husband over his black crown.

"Namo, dear, remember what Manwe said about the Noldor. When you speak to them like that, you scare them," she said reprovingly. "Especially this one's family. It brings up traumatic memories, and then it takes longer until you can send them packing to disturb the rest of Aman. Do you really want to have to nurse this one back to full mental health while his father and grandfather and Eru knows what other sad relations corrupt him again? Come with me, dear; I at least will take care of you." This last was addressed to Celebrimbor, who was again torn between expressions of awe and fear, and giggling madly.

They passed a few corridors that branched off the main hall on each side. "That is the room for the youngest elves, and their parents if they died as well," Vaire pointed out. "That on the left is the hall which some of the younger adults have taken over. I believe you will find two of your uncles in there, should you ever want to visit." As they passed by, a rowdy song erupted from within. Celebrimbor nodded, unfazed, as Vaire blushed at the lyrics.

"Definitely my uncles. That was one of their favorites," he said. "I will certainly have to stop by and visit sometime; I learned a new verse from some of the Edain, and I'm sure they would love it." Vaire nodded a little uncomfortably, and they hurried by with the echoes of the song still ringing in their ears.

Vaire rattled off a list of other halls as the passed them, but Celebrimbor was quickly losing interest. He tried to remain polite, but finally he broke in on the Weaver's litany, "My lady, where might I find my family?"

Vaire stopped, then smiled at him. "Of course, I completely forgot! Most paternal relatives are in the right third hall on the twelfth corridor from this hall. Then there's your half-great…oh dear…Fingolfin and his family, and a few of Finarfin's crowd. They're in the hall across the corridor from the other side of the family. I wouldn't go there unless you want to be involved in a continual battle," she added. "Your grandfather's family has declared war on the other two branches. Even Miriel and Indis have taken sides. Finwe is neutral; you might want to join him."

Celebrimbor had no intention of remaining neutral, thank you very much, but all he said was, "How do they fight?"

"Mainly verbally, except when they forget themselves and attack each other. And that happens rather often; Feanor is a master at riling the others up. When he stoops to engage himself in their arguments, he obliterates everyone except Fingolfin. In a physical battle, though, he can usually be taken down by two others together, as long as they watch their backs." Vaire was really quite interested in the goings-on of the House of Finwe, and secretly recorded each tussle. At the end of each week she and Namo pulled out the growing box of tapestries and leafed through their favorites.

Celebrimbor managed to keep his delight from showing. He managed a polite bow and a hasty, "I thank you, my lady," before diving down the corridor Vaire had mentioned. Due to Vaire's detailed instructions, Celebrimbor found the hall easily enough. Of course, the shouting match between Turgon and Caranthir, with the others shouting encouragements to their champions and deriding their opponents, might have had something to do with it as well.

"Kinslaying pig!" Turgon expressed himself forcefully.

"Two points off Turgon for a repeat!" Miriel called cheerfully. Apparently it was a competition as well as an argument. Fingon, who was keeping score for his team, sighed and rubbed out two chalk marks on Namo's beautiful obsidian walls.

"Better a boar than a little white grub hiding in the mountains," Caranthir replied coolly, once the disturbance over the score had died down.

A roar of agreement from Feanor's side of the corridor greeted this remark, and a smile or two could be seen even on Fingolfin's side. Maedhros grinned broadly and added another tally to their wall. Covered in neat white lines, their side made it abundantly clear who was winning.

Feanor suddenly noticed Celebrimbor standing in the doorway watching them. "End the round!" he shouted. "New family!"

Celebrimbor was suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of unwelcome relatives who came to greet him, congratulate him, console him, and offer him a good seat for the show. He managed to avoid most of them and made his way over to Fingolfin's side, where he hoped to find a warm welcome and a chance at challenging his father in a duel of words. Fingolfin gave him a strange look, then whispered something to Turgon. There followed a conversation which left Celebrimbor in shock.

"You did _what_?!" Celebrimbor had never felt so outraged in his life.

Turgon shifted slightly under Celebrimbor's hurt gaze. "I apologize, Celebrimbor, but they asked whether that was all right or not and we didn't think there was any reason to disagree. We, ah, we forgot that you might be coming," he ended lamely.

Celebrimbor could hardly believe it. He had endured the odd looks he got in Gondolin, he had dealt with the coolness he had always encountered, he had worked and learned like a normal elf with no mention of rank or privileges, only to find out that in the end he had been shunted off onto the family he despised? To make matters worse, it seemed that it was not a true slight; Turgon had merely forgotten about him. Now he was permanently trapped with his father and the others on Feanor's side of the corridor, merely because Feanor had casually suggested that the sides be formed by blood bonds alone, and Fingolfin's side had agreed! The injustice of it all was staggering. He was not even permitted to remain neutral; no, Feanor must carefully add that as an item to his rules.

The upshot of it all was that no matter how much Celebrimbor pleaded and argued, he was left on his grandfather's side of the room and there was no getting around it. So he came, grudgingly, and cheered, halfheartedly, and booed, enthusiastically, and groaned, meaning it every time.

* * *

Some time later, Gil-galad was induced to visit the area. To put it lightly, he was astonished.

"Noldorin backstabber! Jewel-hoarder!"

"Repeat! Repeat! Two points off!"

"If anything, I should say you were the backstabber. And if I hoard my work, at least I do not hoard my city."

"That hit him hard! What do you have to say to that, Turgon? Good move, Celebrimbor!"

For the second time, Gil-galad turned and ran. Really, who needs lunatics when you have family like his?

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter was written at the suggestion of the amazing writer and lovely reviewer KiyaJinnSkywalkerKenobi. If you liked it, it was her idea. If you didn't, I probably botched something along the way.**

 **I had hard time getting Celebrimbor out; even now I'm afraid he's a little too OOC. Opinions? Suggestions? Flames?**


	8. Chapter 8: Fëanor

**Chapter 8**

 **Disclaimer: *yawns* You're smart people, I hope you've guessed by now that I am not Tolkien. Such a surprise. I'm shocked.**

Fëanor was very put out. Dying already? There was so much more he had wanted to do! For one thing, he had to rescue his beloved Silmarils from the grasp of the accursed Morgoth. And of course he had to apologize to Nerdanel and set things right, he could never forget that. So Fëanor was uncooperative when Námo tried to discuss his misdeeds, and uncooperative when Vairë tried to interest him with history, and uncooperative when Estë tried to give him a long sleep in which his subconscious could sort things out, and uncooperative when Irmo tried to send him enlightening dreams, and uncooperative when in desperation the four of them called in Nienna to try a sympathy counselling session.

"There are two things could help him: those jewels of his and his wife," Námo announced one day, after another fruitless discussion. "We do not have the one, and the other will not come; what are we then to do?" After looking around at his family's hopeless stares, he sighed and would have thumped his royal head against the walls if Vairë had not stopped him and administered a warm blanket and a comforting knitted hat. One of the Maiar brought in a large tray of hot tea and biscuits. Half an hour later, Fëanor was forgotten for the present as five Valar had a fine afternoon together.

There was one Maia in particular who served under Námo. His name was Maltil, and he was responsible for bringing tea on that particular day. Now, Maltil possessed both quick ears and a quick wit. He had spent some time around Fëanor; in fact, he was one of the only Maiar that Fëanor allowed to come near him. He knew better than anyone in Mandos except for the elf himself how much he missed Nerdanel. Maltil also possessed an insatiable desire to help the spirits that passed through to find their healing and rest. He was determined to help Fëanor, by hook or by crook…or in this case, by acting as Fëanor and Nerdanel's private mail courier. Of course, he copied all the letters that passed his way. After all, he could hardly tell Námo and Vairë what he was doing without being able to show a complete transcript with which to prove that he was doing good work, correct? In reality, he read them out loud to his coworkers as soon as there was a new one. After some time had passed, the letters suddenly dried up. Maltil took this as an opportunity to compile his copies into a book, which he published in a small batch and gave to his closest friends. These books were a close-kept secret, and the owner of one was considered a lucky individual by the few other who knew of them.

Here follows an exact copy of these letters, taken from a hand-illustrated book loaned by Mileth, Maia of Námo. Along with the book, she was given many of the original copies, out of gratitude for helping many of the most troublesome spirits back onto the path to rebirth. Coincidentally, that path also led directly out of the halls of Mandos.

* * *

 **My dear Nerdanel,**

 **This is considerably more awkward than I had at first thought. May I begin by stating how sorry I am for the trouble I have caused you and your family; and our family as well, I suppose? I hope to be released in time to give you a proper apology in person.**

 **With great love from your husband,**

 **Fëanor**

 _My beloved Fëanor,_

 _Words cannot express how relieved I am to get a letter from you. It's very kind of Maltil to carry these about for us._

 _Now, my dear, please explain just what you meant by dragging all our poor boys off into the wilderness over a handful of pretty rocks! I am a smith's daughter, I know how much we delight in the work of our hands, and even I can say with a straight face that such an excuse is no excuse whatsoever!_

 _Your devoted wife,_

 _Nerdanel_

 **My dear Nerdanel,**

 **You are completely correct, and I now see that I was in the wrong. My only possible excuse is that I was temporarily driven mad by the loss of my father and the thefts at Formenos. However, I realize that I should never have done such a thing.**

 **I have forgotten to ask after your welfare, and for that also I apologize. I trust that you and Mahtan are well? I eagerly await any news of you and your family. Please write soon, my love.**

 **Much love,**

 **Fëanor**

 _My ever-astonishing husband,_

 _Never have you managed to surprise me so thoroughly as your letter did. The inerrant Curufinwë Fëanor apologizing for his mistakes! Surely the world is coming to an end!_

 _Mahtan is well, as am I, save for the shock you gave me. He is very satisfied with himself after he devised a new way of shaping steel into spades. He does not know that we are writing to each other: very like our courtship, would you agree?_

 _We have heard little news from across the sea. Perhaps, if it would not be considered rude, you could ask some of the most recently deceased elves about how our sons are faring out in the wilds alone._

 _Your loving wife,_

 _Nerdanel_

 **My beloved wife,**

 **I do not see why you are so surprised at my apology. I am quite capable of regret when I know I have erred; have you forgotten the time with the willow tree, the pitcher, and the bowl of walnuts?**

 **Are you suggesting that I begin courtship again? That will be difficult, considering that I am a bodiless spirit! And for another thing, your father would skin me alive should I ever return to you.**

 **As for our sons, they are all well, except for our beloved Russandol. An elf who served under him told me that the poor boy had been captured by Morgoth and bound to a precipice by one wrist. Fingon eventually came along and was about to put him out of his misery when Thorondor appeared and saved the day. Our son is alive, but he is…ah…he is missing his right hand. Fingon had to cut it off; he was unable to break open the iron band holding Russ up. Russandol has also given his rights to the kingship to Fingolfin. Apparently some of the other boys were a bit miffed, but for better or worse Fingolfin is the new High King of the Noldor. Seeing how the kings up to now have fared, I certainly do not envy him.**

 **Your husband, who misses you a great deal,**

 **Fëanor**

 _My husband,_

 _What do you mean by coolly telling me that my precious Maitimo has had one of his hands cut off?! Have you no concern for him? One thing is certain: if you come back, and I pray to the Valar that you do not, Father will not be the only one carrying a skinning knife!_

 _Nerdanel_

 **My dear Nerdanel,**

 **That is rather harsh. Am I to blame because our son was captured? I can assure you, I did not send the Balrogs and orcs that took Russandol.**

 **Your loving husband,**

 **Fëanor**

 **Beloved wife,**

 **Maltil has informed me that you will no longer be sending letters. However, he is willing to deliver mine, and I hope you will read them instead of burning them unopened. I am sincerely sorry for all the pain I have caused you and our sons, and I hope that someday we may be reconciled. Merciful Eru, I think Nienna's little talks have been getting to me. I would never have said anything like that a hundred years ago.**

 **Let me see, what news from Mandos? As more and more of my father's descendants arrive, we are dealing with a bit of turbulence. I swear by Eru Iluvatar and the holy pinnacle of Taniquetil, I was not responsible for it. After the first fistfight, though, Fingolfin and I eventually came to an agreement. With (or even without) the permission of Lord Námo, we are going to divide our families into two camps: mine, and my half-brothers'. Separate halls mean that we will not have to suffer each other's company unless desired, and we are planning to allow verbal battles as a way of settling grievances and letting off unnecessary energy.**

 **Fingolfin is really quite tolerable when taken in small doses.** **Ai Valar, I think I had better skip tea with Nienna today. If I am not careful, I will come back completely unrecognizable. Fingolfin says that almost anything would be an improvement over who I was when I was alive.**

 **Your loving husband,**

 **Fëanor**

 **My dear wife, whom I miss greatly,**

 **I wish you would write back, if only to give me the scolding I seem to deserve. As you can probably tell, Nienna has dragged me off to have tea again. I think most of her power is in looking at you with her eyes brimming with unshed tears over your misdeeds. Brrr, it gives me the shivers just thinking about it. But even I am not too proud to imitate a tactic that works. I am enclosing a beautiful bit of embroidery my mother has done for me, depicting that same expression. Hopefully it will move you enough to at least respond to me.**

 **Let me see, what is the latest news? Finrod came to stay. A while later, I heard a very odd story about our sons, Elwë Thingol's daughter, and Elwë's daughter's fiancé. If it is true, and sadly it looks to be that way, I shall have to speak with Tyelkormo and Curufin about their behavior. Why do they never think before they draw their swords? At least the other boys are well.**

 **Your loving husband,**

 **Fëanor**

 **My beloved,**

 **Tyelkormo, Carnistir, and Curufin have arrived. They said they were attacking Elwë's grandson Dior because he had a Silmaril. Some latecomers say that Dior's daughter Elwing got away with the jewel. I am glad that those three have gotten here at last; it was rather lonely. As you might imagine, not many elves want to be around the famous kinslayer Fëanor.**

 **With love,**

 **Fëanor**

 **My dear wife,**

 **We have welcomed the Ambarussa in today! As I expected, they died trying to do a bit more kinslaying with their brothers. They were attacking that lady Elwing, Dior's daughter that I told you about in my last letter. As I heard it from some deceased guards, she took the Silmaril with her into the ocean.**

 **The Ambarussa are very sorry for everything: Lord Námo saw to that. The poor boys really did get a bad scolding over that business. However, they are in much better spirits now and are going to see if any of their friends are in the halls. They have asked me to enclose a letter of their own, and I swear that I have not read it, added to it, or subtracted from it.**

Dearest Mother,

Where to begin? We should introduce ourselves, I suppose: I, Amrod, am writing this letter; and he, Amras, is looking over my shoulder and telling me to put in his own comments.

Please try not to worry about us too much. We really did bring this upon ourselves, and we really should have known better. In other words, this was our fault and you should not blame Father for what we did. Although he certainly can be blamed for a great deal of other things, which I would much rather not think about. If Amras wants to tell you, he may do it himself.

We are having a great deal of fun here, Mother, aside from that initial chat with the Doomsman. Lady Vairë seems to like us a good deal; sometimes we help her get her yarn untangled. Then she gives us two of her longest knitting needles and asks us to give her a sparring demonstration. She always claps as though she has never seen anyone hold a sword before, and then she asks us to come back again soon and visit. It is wonderful exercise, both mentally and physically. Those skeins are more tangled than some of Father's whatsits. (Amras tells me they are called Geometric Constructions and that Father is trying to split an angle into three equal parts. He has not quite done it yet, although we have every hope that he will.)

And we are still practicing our rhetoric. Amras says that what we do can hardly be called rhetoric. Regardless of what it is called, we are very good at the "debates" Father organizes in the hallways. Uncle Fingolfin can talk circles around anybody but Father in seconds, but Father always floors Uncle Fingolfin. Father tells us we are doing very well and that we are nearly as good as he is. Of course, we know he is exaggerating, but it is certainly a wonderful change from no praise at all.

Please write back to Father soon. He tries to hide it, but we can tell he misses you. Mother, when we left Russ, he was certainly not happy, but neither was he still screaming in pain from his wounds. He can hold a sword and fight with it as well as before. Amras says that the only thing he cannot do as well anymore is write, and I agree with him. I swear, you would think he was a bird, and not even a particularly intelligent one, for all the sense we can make out of his Tengwar, if you can call it Tengwar anymore. Of course Makalaurë is well; Amras says he heard him playing one of your favorite dances once. I cannot speak for Tyelko, Carnistir, and Curufin, but as far as I can tell, they are enjoying life here much more than across the seas. (Amras says that we are happier because we do not have to worry about the Oath. Sometimes, I think that I am smarter than Amras, but that he is wiser than I am. What do you think?) And honestly, we did not mind dying. Not when we come to a place like this! We have family, we have friends, we are always busy, and we are becoming better elves every day. Anyway, we hope that you and Father will be happy together again. Do you remember the days when we would all go to Lord Orome's lands and have a picnic together while Lady Vana's deer came and played with us?

With great love from your two littlest coppertops,

Amrod

and

Amras

 **My dear wife,**

 **Russandol is here with us at last. He says that he and Makalaurë took the last two Silmarils, and that he threw himself down a great chasm because it burned him too much. He does not know where our beloved musician is. He says that Makalaurë was acting as though it was burning him as well, but Russ knows nothing more. Nerdanel, I beg you to ask Ulmo if he knows what has happened to our last son. Is it wrong to wish that he were here with us? At least here I could know he was safe and well. If you know what has happened to him, please tell me. I cannot even go near the Valar, or else they would think I was going insane from worry and drag me off to Irmo, and I know I will do something verging on blasphemous if I miss Maltil bringing in a letter because they have put me to sleep.**

 **In haste and worry,**

 **Fëanor**

 _Fëanor,_

 _Ulmo told me that he found the Silmaril on the floor of the ocean, but there was no sign of our son. Ulmo also said that Uinen could not feel him anywhere, and that therefore he has certainly not thrown himself into the sea. Furthermore, Ulmo has seen him along the coast once or twice. I think our son has given up the warrior part of being a warrior-poet, for he was singing as he walked. Whatever else happens, I think he will find healing along the way._

 _Nerdanel_

 **Dear heart,**

 **Thank you. I am glad that he may find rest at last. I pray to the Valar that he will come home to you again in the end.**

 **In greatest joy and love,**

 **Fëanor**

 _Dear husband,_

 _I no longer wish for him to come home to me. I wish for him to come home to_ us _. To all his brothers, and to his father, and to his mother. I wish for him to come home to what he knows as his home. Has Lord Námo yet said when you may be released?_

 _Your very own wife,_

 _Nerdanel_

 **Best beloved,**

 **And what more could anyone wish for? But Lord Námo has said that I am not to be released for…a very long time. I have every hope, however, that our sons will come home to their mother soon, and that is enough for me.**

 **Yours forever in heavenly bliss,**

 **Fëanor**

 _My lovely, nonsensical husband,_

 _Of course you are going to be released soon, if I have anything to say about it. I am sure I can convince Námo to let you out. After all, did I not convince you to stop working on those mathematical theorems of yours and finally repaint our room? And If I can convince you to give up on your work for even a little while, I can convince any Vala to let you come home. He obviously has never tried to keep anything of mine from me before._

 _Your loving wife,_

 _Nerdanel_

 **My dearest Nerdanel,**

 **By all means, do whatever you must to convince the great Lord Námo to release me. But since I am posting this letter from the third hall on the right in the twelfth corridor of the main hall of Mandos, I must assume that he did not listen to you. No matter, I am quite pleased regardless. Vairë came today to ask the twins whether they would like to be reborn soon. They say they are thinking it over, but I believe your youngest two will be coming home to their mother soon.**

 **With a great deal of love for my beautiful wife,**

 **Fëanor**

 _Dear husband,_

 _Yes, you are quite right. He laughed quite kindly, and said that I should come back again at the end of time. Very well, I will wait. But if I do not get back my dearest love then, I think I shall swear an oath of my own. May I have your formula, love?_

 _Much love to you and the boys,_

 _Nerdanel_

 **Dear Nerdanel,**

 **I am beginning to fear for your sanity. You honestly want to swear an oath like ours? I thought they called you the Wise for a reason! My love, please listen to me when I say that you must never, under any circumstances, even consider swearing an oath like that!**

 **Your very concerned husband,**

 **Fëanoris**

 _My dearest Fëanor,_

 _Of course I was teasing about swearing an oath!_

 _Maltil gave me some wonderful news: I will be allowed to visit you every now and again on the doorstep to the Halls. He said that Námo is tired of missing one of his best Maiar to ferry our letters about, and that we should do things a better way. So I shall be seeing you in person in twelve more days!_

 _Your eagerly expectant wife,_

 _Nerdanel_

* * *

 **A/N: Mileth is not mine; she is solely the creation of KiyaJinnSkywalkerKenobi. Her adventures are contained in the amazing story _Sauron Is the Cutest Thing Ever_ , which many of you have probably seen. Thanks for letting me use her, Kiya!**

 **I'm worried that Fëanor is too out-of-character. Your opinions and advice are always welcome!**


	9. Chapter 9: Morgoth

**Chapter 9**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion or any of the following characters. Eru knows how much I would like to.**

For the first hundred years, Melkor sat about quietly and thought. After all, that was what Námo had advised him to do. Except, of course, Melkor thought about fire, blood, death, destruction, and ways to infuriate his guardians, especially Vairë. Melkor hated her. Really, Melkor hated all the other Valar and Valier, but Vairë was especially annoying, because she had the best collection of blackmail material in all of Arda, and she wouldn't let him look at any of it. She said it was for her and Námo's eyes alone. Melkor found this infuriating. Not only was he frustrated that he was unable to get his hands on the most embarrassing events ever to occur in Eä, he objected as a matter of principle. Vairë and Námo never seemed to use their lovely power for anything except getting Yavanna to cut down a particularly misshapen shrub of hers, or telling Aulë to keep the noise from his forges down past dusk. Now, if he owned those tapestries, he would have taken over the world in a few weeks. So Melkor sat in the darkest places he could find and thought.

After the first hundred years, Melkor was still thinking. He was hardly going to limit himself to childish pranks such as tangling her yarns and ripping up her weaving. His attack had to be of a kind that would cause a great deal of damage, and yet would also keep him from the wrath of Námo. He was still thinking at the end of the hundred and fiftieth year. But three-quarters of the way through the hundred and seventy-second year, he had an Idea. An Idea of staggering proportions, and when he said it in his head, he could hear the capital I.

After another year, he saw a small Maia tiptoeing past him through the hall with a large armful of cloth. It was regrettable, but it was for a good cause, Melkor decided. He steeled himself, and asked in the kindest voice he could muster, "Would you like some help with that?" Immediately a wave of repugnance at offering help to one of that cobweb-brained Doomsman's pets washed over him, but he ignored it. Some things – not many, to be true, but some – were worth a little momentary discomfort.

The Maia jumped and almost squeaked at being addressed by the Dark Lord of All Evil, and especially at being asked whether said Dark Lord could be of assistance. Scooping up the cloth, the Maia cut and ran, leaving Melkor behind looking sad and disappointed.

A few minutes later, the Maia, followed closely by Vairë, returned through a different hall. Vairë waved the Maia back down the corridor and advanced on Melkor alone. Melkor did his level best to appear innocent and slightly hurt that she would ever suspect him of any wrongdoing. Vairë wasted no time. "Why were you assaulting that Maia?" she demanded, sounding frighteningly like her husband.

Melkor looked even more hurt. "I didn't assault him!" he protested.

"Don't whine like that," Vairë broke in sharply. "It hurts my ears, hearing those abhorrent noises coming from your repulsive mouth."

Melkor worked hard at it, and soon he managed to get a few small tears to trickle out of the corners of his eyes. "I didn't!" he said, sounding like he was going to have a breakdown in a few minutes. "I just asked him if he wanted some help, and then he ran away! I was trying to be nice, and, and show that I was repenting of my misdeeds in Arda!"

Vairë's severe expression softened. "Very well, Melkor. If you were really just trying to help, then I am sorry I shouted at you. Tell me, are you really beginning to repent?" she asked kindly.

Melkor nodded eagerly, but then his face drooped slightly. "Except sometimes the other one, the bad evil one, he comes back and then I do bad things. He doesn't ever stay away!" Melkor began squeezing tears out again.

Vairë looked interested. "Dual personalities, hmm. I should talk to Námo about it." She patted Melkor comfortingly on the shoulder. "Well, try your hardest to keep him away. Námo, Irmo, Estë, and I will always try to help you as much as we can. If I can find something for you to help with in the halls, would you like to do that?" Melkor nodded again, trying to put as much enthusiasm onto his face as he could. Being good was hard work!

After that, things went well for Melkor. He pretended to be good about half the time, just to keep up appearances, and when he couldn't stand it any longer he reverted to his true self, addressing all and sundry with biting insults and causing mayhem. Námo, to be sure, was still somewhat suspicious of Melkor's sudden about-face. He and Vairë would have long debates over the subject, Vairë constantly advocating Melkor's case while Námo argued the improbability of such a character change. Melkor would hide behind a pillar and watch them, giggling in a most undignified manner.

Then there were the times when Manwë would come and visit. He was also puzzled by Melkor, but he was too glad to have even a remnant of his brother back to wonder too much. They would have long talks about the "good old days" when they would sing together before Iluvatar. In reality, Melkor hated it when Manwë brought up the "good old days," but he pasted a nostalgic, regretful half-smile onto his face and nodded along.

Varda came along with her husband a few times, and it unnerved Melkor. She frightened him, and he was sure she knew, or at least suspected, that he was completely, wholly, immutably evil at heart. And she somehow managed to always bring in one or two of her stars with her. He found that endlessly annoying, especially since he was never able to rip one apart and devour it in front of her horrified eyes, much as he would like to.

Tulkas, as usual, behaved in his typical manner. Melkor privately considered him a fool with half-baked worms as a shoddy substitute for the organ with which most other beings did their thinking, and he decided to take advantage of his "dual personality" by saying so to his face. He was rewarded with the gratifying sight of a raging Tulkas being forcibly restrained by Manwë, Námo, and Vairë, and then made to apologize to the "nicer" version of Melkor, who in turn was suitably horrified and penitent over his own actions.

But it was Nienna that really drove Melkor round the bend. She was always asking him whether he wanted to talk about how he felt, and that she was always there for him, and that he could tell her anything, and that it was okay if he felt like he needed to cry. After a month of it, he finally had a stroke of what he considered genius. An hour before she came by, he began to put on his good-Melkor act, helping the Maiar with anything that needed doing and behaving himself. When Nienna herself arrived, he smiled shyly and said that yes, there was actually something that he wanted to talk about. Nienna immediately perked up, drying her ever-flowing tears and paying close attention. Melkor stared at his feet for a while, until, after a bit of gentle prodding from Nienna, he finally stammered out, "Lady Nienna, I, I think I'm in love with you." He felt sick, and very ashamed of himself for saying such a thing, even if it was for a good cause. But he did his best to look hopefully adoring anyway.

Nienna stared at him blankly. "You…what?"

Melkor repeated himself. "Lady Nienna, you have my undying love until the world ends." He was sure that if she asked him again, he would fall over retching on the floor, but thankfully Nienna did not. She gazed at him, open-mouthed, before running away as quickly as she could. To his immense relief, she did not come back for the rest of his stay in Mandos.

Irmo was rather worrying to Melkor. He would come and watch as Melkor alternately helped Maiar with their tasks and belittled them, and his neutral stare was beginning to make Melkor uncomfortable. One day he found himself falling asleep and reliving his memories. When he forced himself to wake up again, Irmo was standing over him looking somewhat frustrated.

Nothing he could do would rattle the pesky Vala. "Reverting" to his original self and shouting insults did nothing. Neither did gentle protestations that Irmo was frightening him. Matters finally came to a head one day. Námo and Vairë came to tell him that since he had been demonstrating such good behavior recently, he was being transferred to Lórien for further treatment. This change, so they said, had been approved by Lord Manwë, and Irmo and Estë were more than willing to help their fellow Ainu regain his natural character. Naturally, this decision terrified and horrified Melkor, but no pleading, arguing, or shouting could change their decision.

The day before he was expected to leave the halls of Mandos for the gardens of Lórien, Námo, Vairë, Irmo, and Estë came to make sure he was in full physical and mental health. Námo and Vairë were sure that he had no physical ailments, so the four quickly banded together and invaded his mind without warning. Caught off guard, he heard the other Ainur exclaiming over the state of his mind.

 _Why, he's the only one in here!_ Vairë sounded surprised, and a little hurt.

 _I told you so!_ Námo was crowing.

 _Look, there's no sign of another personality in here, or even of some sort of mental disorder_ , Irmo pointed out. _This is completely Melkor, probably playing a trick on us all for his own enjoyment._

 _Nienna!_ Estë was calling. Melkor panicked.

 _No, not her!_ he begged. _She's going to start crying over me again!_ Nienna arrived and, quite naturally, began weeping at Melkor's misbehavior. _By Iluvatar's holy left toenail, woman, turn off the accursed waterworks!_

For the next hour, chaos reigned supreme.

 **A/N:** **People who review with their accounts have been getting PMs, but for everyone else, I'll start adding replies to the ends of chapters.**

 **Kasura: Thanks for your many other reviews, by the way. Yes, I'm quite sure she would. And Maltil is "snoopy" because, of course, he has to be able to show that he's using his mail-carrying for good purposes, in this case reforming Fëanor (yeah, like anyone can reform _him_ ).**

 **And thanks, Kiya, for giving me a good hard kick in the pants to finish this chapter.**


	10. Chapter 10: Huan

**Chapter 10**

 **Disclaimer: This should be obvious, but in case it isn't, _I don't own the Silmarillion or any of its characters._**

Huan was dumbfounded. He had no idea what happened to animals after their death; he assumed that they tagged along with the humans on the quick road out of the world or some other tidy theological doctrine. Instead, he found himself landing squarely on all four paws in front of the gates to Mandos. He had no idea why. Perhaps it was due to his ability to understand language. He supposed that gave him a soul, too, like an elf. And he was a hound of Oromë, after all. It was all very confusing; why did the Valar expect a dog to understand the afterlife?

So he sat there and waited for someone to come explain things to him. After a very long wait, he saw Beren go by. And then Luthien came after him, but they seemed not to notice him. Then they both came out again, and they never came back. Well, he saw the tail end of something that might have been Luthien's dress a long time later. But really, it could have been anyone. Finally someone, a Maia, came and talked to him for a bit. Between the constant appellations of "good dog," "old boy," and the occasional "nice pup," he managed to piece together that he was wanted by Lord Námo, and Lord Námo wanted him soon-ish. Creaking a bit from long sitting in one position, he got up and padded after the Maia.

Lord Námo was there. He noticed, to be sure; it was often his duty when on guard to notice things, but there was someone much more important there – at least, to him. He could see Lord Oromë. That always made everything better. He liked Lord Oromë. All things considered, he actually adored Lord Oromë, but he was hardly about to say anything like that, or even think it too loudly. For one thing, Lady Vána would not appreciate other people adoring her husband. He liked Lady Vána, and he hardly wanted her to disapprove of him.

Huan's reflections were cut off by a clearing-of-the-throat from Námo. "Huan, Lord Oromë and I have come to a decision. You will be reborn as a hound under the service of Oromë, rather like the elves. However, you must also remain in the halls of Mandos, just as the elves do. To make your time here easier, you may choose an elf with whom you may stay, to find companionship both here and when you are both reborn. I understand that your former master Celegorm has recently arrived, but in light of certain events you may not wish to see him again. I would also suggest Finrod Felagund, whom you may remember from your time in Nargothrond. Beren likely spoke of him as well." Námo winced almost imperceptibly at the name, the memory of that mortal still causing a few headaches. That was an incident he would much rather not repeat.

Huan nodded, gravely, and padded away down a randomly chosen hall. He wondered, briefly, whether Finrod had been alerted by Námo. He hoped so. Finrod would probably know quite a lot of good stories about Beren, and maybe even Luthien too.

As he turned these grave matters over in his head, he wandered through the corridors, looking for Finrod. He was fairly sure he could find him, eventually. He hoped so. He certainly did not want to meet Celegorm. Still, he was hardly in any hurry to find either of them. From what Lord Námo had said, he was going to be staying there for quite a while.

After a while, he found the infamous Halls of Finwë, populated by the deceased descendants of the former king. It was a scene of utter chaos, and all Maiar knew to avoid it due to the constant verbal, and sometimes physical, brawls that raged in the corridor between Fëanor's allies and the children of Indis. As he looked inside, he could see Fëanor and Fingolfin standing mere feet away from each other in the middle of the corridor, taking turns telling each other in polite, caustic tones exactly what kind of vile, disreputable worm they thought each other. Fëanor appeared to be getting the better of his half-brother, and what was present of his family was cheering as Miriel recorded point after point for their side. Huan watched in amazement as the normally mild Fingolfin pointed out in scathing terms that Fëanor was a doomed madman who had dragged his entire family down into the grave after him, and was cursed by the Valar themselves to boot.

Huan's muffled yelp was clearly audible in the aftermath of this statement, and every head turned towards the corridor entryway. Finrod and Celegorm were away from their places in a flash, with Finrod slightly in the lead. However, this did not stop Celegorm from practically landing in a pile on top of them both. The two elves immediately began to dispute care of the patient hound.

"Cousin, I request that you step away from my dog," Celegorm managed to say between clenched teeth.

Finrod looked mildly surprised. "Your dog, you say?" he asked calmly. "Oh, I heard he abandoned you after you tried to kidnap and kill his friends."

Celegorm looked pleadingly at his former companion. "Huan, I realize I was never the most well-meaning, or even one of the most intelligent elves, but my time here has been changing me for the better. I am sure we can come to love and respect each other again, as we did before."

Huan looked about to pad over to Celegorm, until Finrod added, "He was hardly very pleasant just a few rounds ago, when he was calling me a thickheaded overgrown specimen of the Naugrim." This changed things. Huan sat back down, staring up at the two elves.

Celegorm looked ready to fly at his half-cousin, but he restrained himself with a visible effort. "Let us not forget, friend, that you informed my family that I was a half-baked gutless excuse for a highwayman," he growled. This much new information was confusing Huan. He knew Celegorm was not good, and he was finding out that Finrod was not as good as everyone had said.

"You know we are only fighting in fun, Huan," Finrod said hastily. Huan whined slightly and shook his head at both of them. Finrod sighed. "Very well, we will take the case before Grandfather. He will be a perfectly impartial judge."

Five minutes later, the halls were assembled into some kind of order, with Finrod and Celegorm on either side of Huan. Finwë faced them both. He prided himself on his ability to act impartially when dealing with his children, and his children's offspring. He was quite good at maintaining a neutral face in front of them. "Celegorm may begin," he said to his obviously impatient grandson.

Huan rumbled slightly, a half-growl rising from far down in his chest. He appreciated that these elves were trying to make things easier for him, but they also seemed inclined to parcel him off to whichever one Finwë decided was in the right. This state of affairs rather irritated Huan. More trouble or no, he would much rather be making the decision of whom to stay with on his own, not being bestowed upon one or the other like some valuable heirloom. But he could understand that they likely thought of him as such. Celegorm seemed to be ignoring the rumbles. Most unwise, any orc could tell him.

"I believe that Huan should remain with me, since it was thus in the Outer Lands," Celegorm began.

"And yet it was also not," Finrod interrupted mildly. "If you will recall, Huan deserted you to serve Lúthien and Beren. Since I was close to Beren, and already know Huan somewhat, I believe Huan would be happier with me."

"Close to Beren indeed," Celegorm snorted. "You died not long after you left with him; how much friendly bonding could you two have done anyway?"

"At least I died honorably, protecting a friend! You died killing your own people!" Finrod snapped.

"Oh, died honorably, I'm quite sure of that," Celegorm drawled. "Let me see, you were killed by a big dog, one my Huan could beat with one sweep of his tail…in your own tower? How sad." He tsk'ed in mock sympathy, shaking his head.

"Mock me one more time, Fëanorion, and I swear I will…" whatever Finrod was about to say was cut off by a loud horn blast and the appearance of Oromë through the door. Huan barked happily and leaped away to see the Vala.

"I came to collect my wolfhound, since Námo told me he would be here. Yes, I am pleased to see you as well," Oromë told an ecstatic Huan. "Námo is letting you out now. Oh, and thank you two for taking care of him for me," he said to Celegorm and Finrod. "You may come visit whenever you are reborn. Huan will certainly want to see his old friends."

The dog and the Vala left Mandos together while the two elves looked on silently. Celegorm finally spoke. "Dirt-digger," he told Finrod.

* * *

 **A/N: If anyone starts making witty remarks about Beauty and the Beast, I swear I will find you and turn you into salsa.**

 **Reviews:**

 **kasura: Here's your Noldorin family train wreck back!**

 **gingerrogers12345: Glad you like it! I don't think I'll abandon this for a while. (Now, post late, maybe...)**


	11. Chapter 11: Ambarussa

**Chapter 11**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion, or any of the following characters except Maltil, who made a brief appearance in a previous chapter.**

"Well met, friend!" the clear voice of Amras son of Fëanor called across the threshold of Mandos. "I am sorry that you took three spears for me to no purpose!" Another Noldo called back that it was no trouble at all, really, and a discussion ensued on whether it was more painful to die by several spears in the chest, or by a sword in the abdomen. In the end it was decided that three spears were more painful than a sword, but two spears were not. As the conversation went off onto a tangent as to whether swords and spears were worse than falling from a great height, Amrod fell nearly atop his brother.

Amras looked hurt. "Brother, I did not jump in front of a rampaging Sinda for you so that you could kill yourself trying to avenge me, or some other noble rubbish," he reprimanded a grinning, unrepentant Amrod, who merely smirked at him.

"Life was going to be dull without you," he remarked, as if that explained leaping onto an entire squadron of a hundred hostile elves. "After all, you were the one who knew all the best romantic ballads about Morifinwë and that lady of the Edain, Haleth," he added.

Amras spluttered. "I sang those songs one time, Amrod! One time!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, but you sang them underneath his window for hours so it was impossible for him to sleep," Amrod reminded him. "How did you convince Makalaurë to accompany you on his harp?" he asked curiously. "You never would tell me while we were alive."

Amras shrugged. "I told him I would tell Maitimo just what kind of family portraits he had in that little red book of his," he said. "I caught a glimpse of it one day, so I slipped the book out of his room one night to get a closer look. It was well worth the trouble," he added with a grin.

Amrod was about to say that such a feat bordered on the impossible when a Maia appeared, looking very put out. Being very fond of the Teleri and Sindar, he was distressed by the outrageous numbers of both that were arriving in the Halls, and he was hard pressed to remain civil towards the twin Kinslayers. His only comfort was that Námo would likely "discuss their actions" with them rather firmly.

After what felt like ages, Amrod and Amras were finally let loose upon the Halls of Mandos. Both were feeling rather ashamed of themselves and their many misdeeds on both sides of the sea, but since Lord Námo had assured them that all was forgiven, they were quickly regaining their cheer. Enough cheer, in fact, to pull a long thread out of a nearby tapestry and create a basic tripwire, for their own amusement. Their half-cousin-by-marriage Eöl discovered this in a painful manner.

Then came the day when they found Vairë's yarn storeroom, and they transformed the plainest of halls into a tangled maze that would snare even the most agile. Vairë was forced to weave without the color green for quite a while afterwards. Then her blues were found missing after the twins rigged an elaborate yarn snare outside the hall governed by their uncle and populated by the children of Indis. All the Maiar found the sight of Turgon dangling from the roof by one leg highly amusing, but Vairë was hard pressed to depict the voyage of Eärendil without the sea or the sky.

Námo was going the rounds of his halls some weeks afterwards. Most times he tried to stay out of the sight of the elves in his halls. He knew that he was rather unnerving to most of them, especially to the deceased Noldor who had left with Fëanor. Most of them remembered with terror the imposing Doomsman who had pronounced horrible fates on them all as they left Aman. So Námo usually stayed out of sight as he inspected his halls. That was why Námo saw Amrod and Amras before they saw him. The twins were holding large spools of dark gray yarn and discussing the best way to suspend a net trap from the ceiling of the hall.

"We would have to put in two tripwires," Amrod was explaining. Amras looked puzzled.

"Why do we need to do that?" he asked. "If we put only one in, it could work as both the tripwire and the switch."

"Because the tripwire must be firmly attached to something solid, dolt, or else there is nothing to keep the victim from walking through it like a strand of spidersilk," Amrod informed his brother affectionately.

"Not if you tie your yarn to pins set into the wall," Námo put in from a corner. He allowed himself a slight smile as the brothers jumped several inches. "This way, see," he told them, pulling a few nails out of a large bag and pushing them firmly into the joints of the walls. "Now fix the net mechanism to the nail, and you save yourselves a great deal more work." Amrod and Amras gaped, then began thanking the Vala profusely. Námo merely smiled and left them to their work. Before he was even another hall down, he heard Amras remarking, "I never knew he was good at tricks."

Námo rose a great deal more in the twins' opinion after his improvement on their earlier design easily netted their father. Fëanor saw the tripwire, of course, and made a great show of pulling the string up with one finger, but he missed the long gray strand running up the wall. As it was dragged along behind the nail, a loose knot high above unleashed a tangled mess of gray yarn on his head. Amrod and Amras were in stitches. Of course, this put them at a disadvantage when Fëanor decided to pursue them and tickle them into a second death, but nobody minded, except Vairë.

And when Amrod and Amras used the rest of Vairë's red yarn to festoon the nearest corridor with complicated messes of traps and snares, Námo unexpectedly appeared with a large sack of boards, springs, nails, saws, levers, and other materials. He explained to the dumbfounded twins that Vairë needed a little livening up, although he added that Vairë wasn't to know who had given them the extra supplies. After offering a final suggestion for a wholly new kind of rope snare, Námo was forced to rush away to meet Manwë and Irmo for some vitally important discussion over the exact timing of a butterfly's birth in the future that would decide whether a Telerin ship would sink or sail.

Amrod and Amras set to work gleefully, stringing the red yarn haphazardly, and also less haphazardly when it was time for a snare, across their selected corridor. They accompanied this unholy defilement of the sacred Halls of Mandos with thankful declarations of praise to, so they said, the finest Vala of them all.

Sadly, this final prank was too much for Vairë. One can hardly depict the fall of Morgoth without blue, gray, green, or red. A mere hour after Maeglin, cursing loudly, was extricated with great difficulty from sixteen different traps, the Weaver summoned the two miscreants before her. Kindness does not always imply blindness, and from the equally secretive and stubborn expressions on the two young elves' faces, combined with the traps that contained materials otherwise foreign to the Halls, Vairë assumed that they were being secretly helped by a rogue Maia. Maltil was a likely suspect, but since he was so busy carting letters around between Fëanor and Nerdanel, or rather from Fëanor to Nerdanel, he was out of the question. Vairë was somewhat at a loss. In the end, she gave up guessing and asked the twins themselves, although she could have saved her breath. Amrod and Amras absolutely refused to tell her who their accomplice was, saying that they had sworn not to give away their fellow trickster's identity, and therefore their honor as descendants of Fëanor and Finwë would not permit such a thing.

Vairë certainly tried to convince them otherwise. But in the end, after wheedling and rationalizing failed in the face of genuine Noldorin stubbornness and "honor," Vairë decided that the game was hardly worth the candle, and containing the twins in an empty hall until they confessed. If their honor held out, they would be out of her yarn for quite a long time. All in all, it was quite a success from Vairë's point of view.

Amrod and Amras, however, were not quite so satisfied with the affair. Several fruitless minutes were spent trying to find some other way to escape, besides the bolted door. "Brother mine, I must say that we put our foot into it, would you agree?" Amrod finally asked.

"Say rather that a certain Vala, blessed be his name," Amras replied, "put his oar into it and therefore, here we are."

"Did someone call?" Námo suddenly asked from beside Amras, who yelped and shot away from the wall through which the Doomsman had appeared. To his credit, Amrod managed to keep himself from jumping, but a small squeak escaped his lips. Námo chuckled, and the boom of his holy laughter shook the roof and rained mortar and pebbles down on the twins' red-thatched crowns. Noticing the damage he was causing in his own halls, Námo stopped laughing. Amrod and Amras crawled out from under each other and shook the dust out of their hair.

"Many thanks, Lord," they coughed together. "But would your Lordship kindly request that we be released from this unfortunate predicament?" Amras added.

Námo appeared to consider the request for a moment, then replied, "Gladly, if you will tell Vaire that I was the one helping you."

Amras clamped his jaws together tightly, leaving Amrod the responsibility of replying for both of them. "Lord, we would consider it grave dishonor to go back on our words, once given," he answered respectfully. He also muttered, less respectfully, "And we would consider it grave danger to our health to do so!"

Although Námo would have been surprised to hear anything different from the sons of Fëanor, he attempted to look resigned and unwilling, which was not wholly untrue. "Very well then, I will have to bear the brunt of Lady Vairë's ire myself," he informed the twins, who had the decency to look somewhat abashed. "Now, be sure to learn from this," he went on in mock sternness. "Here are two great truths that hold forever, both in life and death. First, always hold onto your honor. If there are some who respect it, you are often able to work your way out of difficult situations." The twins nodded solemnly. "And second, stay out of Vairë's knitting basket!"

* * *

 **A/N: I apologize for the long delay; this chapter was a rather difficult one to write.**

 **Reviews:**

 **Sara Pettersson: Yes, they rather are, aren't they? That's the Noldor for you, always squabbling about something that they just end up losing in the end.**

 **kasura: I'm glad you like it so far! Yes, Finrod was a great deal of fun to write, and so was the snippet of the insult battle. I always sympathize with Fëanor's crew more than the others too.**


	12. Chapter 12: Caranthir

**Chapter 12**

 **Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own the Silmarillion or any of its characters. Mileth is the sole property of KiyaJinnSkywalkerKenobi.**

Caranthir hissed slightly as the Sindarin sword exited his intestines. He quickly realized that he was unlikely to survive this Kinslaying. He was no healer, but he prided himself that he could tell when someone had perforated his intestines and neatly pierced his stomach. To the best of his knowledge, such a thing had occurred, and to the best of his knowledge, such a thing was regarded as a lost cause by most of his healers. He had lost a few of his soldiers to such wounds. And so, being rather practical, he decided that if he was going to die, he might as well do it quickly and leave behind the various pains he was registering from his abdomen. In addition, he was also hoping to avoid emotional goodbyes around his dying corpse, especially from Maedhros, who would probably reassure him that they'd see each other again in Aman, and Maglor, who was sure to start singing a tragic ballad in his memory. Dying quickly, he was sure, was easiest in every way. It meant much less pain, both physically and emotionally. Much as he liked his brothers, he was hardly about to let them start sobbing over his chest and expressing their love for him while he was trying to die.

As his spirit departed for the halls of Mandos, he realized that he had had a very narrow escape. The Ambarussa, closely followed by Maedhros and Maglor, ran up to his body and immediately began weeping and crying out in distress, mere seconds after he died. Thoroughly embarrassed, Caranthir would have blushed if he was still in control of his body. He was immensely glad that he was flying away from that situation at an increasingly rapid pace.

Curufin was in the same position. However, not having his brother's forethought, he, by the grace of the Valar, was permitted to live until his remaining brothers had said their farewells over his body. He wished Celegorm had been there with them, but he consoled himself with the idea that he would be seeing Celegorm and his father in the halls of Mandos, and none of them were likely to leave soon. Such thoughts usually did cheer Curufin up considerably. He always appreciated the simple gifts that life, and death, were kind enough to give him.

As Curufin was saying his farewells to the remaining brothers, Caranthir was receiving a rather biting lecture from Námo on the many demerits of Kinslaying. Námo was in a rather caustic mood, having had to deal with countless Sindarin spirits in a few hours. It was rather trying for the Vala, and as a result he was mightily wroth with the instigators of the attack. Caranthir was thankful that Celegorm had arrived before him, and had received the worst of Námo's ire. He was distinctly envious of Curufin, who was likely to escape the worst of it. Caranthir considered this a most unfair advantage.

However, barring his unpleasant experience with Námo, Caranthir was in a rather self-congratulatory mood. He had escaped his father's sarcastic but sincere welcomes, his grandfather's warm embraces, his grandmother's gentle smiles and affectionate nicknames, and, worst of all, Celegorm's hearty congratulations on being in the same plane of existence as himself, accompanied by a bear hug and a few hearty slaps on the back. Caranthir felt that the less he saw of his family, the easier his stay in Mandos would be. Although he ran the risk of being welcomed again whenever any of these relations saw him again, it was still much better than this mass rush.

Going as a brisk walk – he would have scorned to call it a run – Caranthir quickly deserted the better populated areas of the Halls and struck out for the edges. If he also chose to duck out of sight upon seeing any member of the House of Finwë, it was merely to avoid idle chitchat that would break his stride. Caranthir was violently opposed to anything and everything sentimental, causing much entertainment for his brothers. In the early days, before the Silmarils were created, even Fëanor and Nerdanel had joined in, showering each other with fond terms of endearment in his hearing, accompanied by many effusive kisses. His blushes on seeing these displays were not an insignificant reason for his name of "Carnistir."

Caranthir finally found a secluded area, far away from all his family. He received a rather unpleasant surprise when a familiar face seemed to be staring at him from the wall, but thankfully it was only a tapestry. He was about to look at some of the other weavings that hung from the walls when he realized that the face looking out at him was quite obviously his own, complete with scowl and red coloring. Snorting, he quickly scanned the tapestry to see what the industrious Vairë had captured him doing. His snort, only half-formed, quickly became a cough, which preceded a great deal of choking.

His army was rushing along one side of the tapestry. Near the middle stood a band of orcs, baring their teeth and apparently snarling at the charging forces. Behind them was a small fortress from whence a ragged band of men charged upon their besiegers from behind. Upon closer inspection, Caranthir discovered that they were led by a woman. He gulped rather nervously, wondering what else was hung in that hall. His suspicions were confirmed when another tapestry nearby showed him talking with Haleth, along with very descriptive embroidered lettering in Quenya and Sindarin. Apparently Vairë's tapestries were based off sight only, without sound. She had drawn the wrong conclusions from Caranthir's sudden rescue of and subsequent conversation with the lady of the Edain. Sighing at the obvious misconception, Caranthir was about to inspect some of the other tapestries when he heard Curufin remarking in a rather self-satisfied manner to Celegorm, "I knew we would find him here!"

Curufin was, in fact, quite pleased with himself. Not only had he found his brother in record time, in exactly the place he had said he would be, but it meant that his plan was sure to work perfectly. Curufin was, in fact, devising a complex strategy to force his dark, solitary brother to show affection for someone else. His plan seemed foolproof. Curufin always made it a point to appreciate life's simple gifts, such as a spray of gold sparks in a dark forge, his brother Maglor's singing, and being correct.

Caranthir, meanwhile, was looking at his brother suspiciously. "Why did you 'know' I would be here?" he asked his smirking siblings. "Even I hardly knew where I was going."

Celegorm gestured at the cloth-covered walls. "Quite simple, when one thinks about it," he explained. "Curufin knew you would be here because this is where the tapestries of Haleth of the Edain are collected."

"And why is that important?" Caranthir asked, blinking in confusion. Sometimes his brothers made no sense at all. "I hardly see why I should care about Haleth enough to come specifically to the hall of her tapestries."

Curufin and Celegorm exchanged glances. Curufin spoke for both of them. "Oh…we thought you were in love with her," he told Caranthir.

"What?! Where in the name of our Lord Manwë did you ever find evidence for that?" Caranthir exploded. His face was quickly passing from pale pink to red to deep burgundy. "I rescue some of the Secondborn from orcs, and all the thanks I get is to be forever romantically paired with their leader? Everyone, from the greatest of the Valar to the least intelligent of my brothers," Curufin winced, "insists that I was head-over-heels infatuated with her! Is an elf not allowed to do some altruistic good in his life without being accused of having romantic feelings? Am I forbidden to invite her to live near me if I feel the need for companionship and camaraderie? By all that is sacred in this world, I think this is the greatest injustice of all!"

Near the end of Caranthir's rant, Curufin began to ignore him and think again. "Did you say you felt the need for companionship?" he suddenly asked.

Caranthir paused and regarded him warily. "I did," he replied shortly. "What of it?"

Curufin smiled cheerfully. "I see; you were never romantically attracted to Lady Haleth. You felt the need for a friend and sibling, since the other six of us were already paired: Nelyo and Kano, Telvo and Pityo, and us two. Well, I happen to have met a Maia who has a wonderful talent for dealing with elven spirits. Her name is Mileth, and I assure you that she will be more than happy to fill the role of sister towards you!"

It would be too undignified to say that Caranthir stamped his foot on the floor in his fury, but he came as close as elves come. His groans could be heard through several inches of solid stone, and he practically began tearing at his dark red-tinted hair. Curufin smiled at the amusing sight. He had always appreciated life's simplest gifts.

 **A/N: Apologies for the lack of updates. I had an unfortunate run-in with the structure known as Writer's Block.**

 **As I stated in the disclaimer, Mileth and her adventures belong to the talented KiyaJinnSkywalkerKenobi. Anyone interested in reading more about her should find the fanfic "Sauron Is the Cutest Thing Ever" and its sequel, "Elf Café and Mairon's Manor."**

 **Reviews:**

 **kasura: Yes, although in other stories I attempt to keep them from falling too far into the twin-pranksters stereotype. I just couldn't resist this time! Poor Maeglin and E** **öl; nobody loves them.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

The sky was dark, save for a few distant, faded pinpricks of dim white starlight that filtered down. The sea was darker, almost pitch-black save for the rarest of rare moments when a wave caught a flicker of light and reflected it back to the sky. Through this darkness, then, the brilliant orange and blue lamps that hung from the prows of all the swan-ships, stolen from the white harbors of Alqualondë, were like small suns in their own right. Not that anyone knew what the sun was like, of course. That was why it was dark.

On the lead ship of the stolen fleet, High King Curufinwë Fëanáro paced back and forth on the deck hastily, striding from one end of the ship to the other. Stopping abruptly in the middle of a stride, he called the first mate of his ship over. "Send a boat out and ask my sons to come here, would you?" he asked. "Call it a family meeting if you must; that will bring them if nothing else will."

It barely took any time for the small boat to return with the seven Fëanárions – the Ambarussa inseparable as always, Tyelkormo springing easily aboard, the younger Curufinwë the very image of his father, Makalaurë unconsciously humming an old sea shanty, Carnistir walking stiffly and looking at odds with the world, Nelyafinwë the oldest shaking sea-spray out of his eyes –

Fëanáro remembered for the thousandth time that he loved them, and why he loved them, and he felt better about telling them what he was about to say.

"I believe we can talk better in my cabin," he said, leading the way to the slightly cramped room near the prow of the ship. It was not at all designed to hold eight fully grown elves, but, ever the poet, Makalaurë said that it brought them all closer together literally and figuratively, which settled the matter.

Curufinwë regarded them gravely for a split second, and then began. "I do not believe that I will come out of this war alive," he said, slowly, almost cautiously, gauging the reactions of his sons. "I know all too well the power of the Ainur, and it would truly take a miracle to win this war without major losses. I trust you seven to lead after me, should I fall in this war, and I trust that you will not allow your pride to interfere with your reason." He smiled slightly at the younger Curufinwë. "Especially you, small one." Atarinkë flushed and ducked his head, nodding.

"Father, though the very thought of your death is most unpleasant, and though I pray that you will be there to make this choice for yourself, I must ask – ought we make the Silmarilli or the leadership of the Noldor our first priority?" Makalaurë asked, his eyes slightly pained.

"Fëanáro shrugged. "I leave it to you! If you can reclaim the Silmarilli but lose the crown to Nolofinwë, or if you can put down his claims forever but lose all hope of gaining the jewels, that will be your choice and I will say naught either way."

"And when, in the event of your untimely demise, may we expect your return?" Nelyafinwë put in, his voice deceptively light.

Fëanáro's face tightened, and his eyes half-closed, as though in pain. His voice was soft and sorrowful as he said, "I do not believe I shall ever return, my sons. I have heard the tales of the Sindar returned from death, and I doubt greatly that Námo Mandos will allow me the joys of life again."

There was silence. Turkafinwë was the first to break it, his words tightly wound with emotion. "So, then, Námo Mandos can deny to any he chooses the mere right to live? Is that not a gift from Eru?"

"Of course he can; he and Manwë and Varda the Kindler together may hold any soul for however long they choose, even forever." Fëanáro laughed. "Aye, and none know the mind of Mandos, none know the judgements made in the Halls, and none have resisted the summons of Mandos. They say that if one submits to the teachings of Námo and shows growth and repentance, then they are released, though the very nature of their spirits has been changed through this 'teaching.'"

The Ambarussa exchanged a look, and promptly looked nauseated. "Why would – how could the Valar even imagine such a thing?"

Fëanáro laughed again, though his voice was bleak when he explained, "Doubtless they believe they are doing us a service, of sorts. After all, given my actions to this point, I hardly believe any of those saintly sods would allow me out without a great deal of 'correction' and 'instruction.' But the point is moot. They say the soul is weaker without the body, and much as I dread the threat of change to my very being, I dread more coming again to you as a stranger. If there is any choice in the matter, I shall never walk the world again, or if I must again take bodily form, I shall never come back to you. I would not make you suffer the presence of a stranger with my shape, for that is what they would make of me." Something that might have been a tear flickered at the corner of his eye for a brief second, and was gone in the next swing of the lantern. "I would do anything to come back to you as myself, as only myself, without any of their meddling and shaping. Anything at all, but there are some things that cannot be done." He forced a smile, but it was strained and the raw sorrow and fear spilled through the places where it cracked. "Oh, do not let me make you all so glum. I was never given talent in foresight, and we may yet have hundreds of years together. My heart has been wrong before."

"Aye, and we have laughed in the face of fate before, have we not?" the younger Curufinwë said with a fine attempt at bravado. A chorus of "aye's" filled the small cabin, and the eight elves locked each other in one tight, quick embrace. The assembly broke up soon after that, with a few light jokes and attempts at good humor. A week later, the ships landed at Losgar.

Time passed. Battles were fought. The Balrogs came, and there was mourning the camp of the Noldor for their fallen king, but nowhere was it stronger than among the sons of Fëanáro, for they alone knew that their father would not walk the earth again before their eyes. And the soul of the Spirit of Fire obeyed the summons of Mandos, and sat still and quiet in the Halls until the world was broken and made anew at the command of Ilúvatar, until the end of all things.

~ _fin_ ~

 **Author's Note** :

All of Fëanor's information is drawn from or modified from the History of Middle Earth, volume XII, Morgoth's Ring. Some of it is incorrect, though not with intent to deceive. Rather, consider it accidental misinformation by Fëanor's sources or incorrect inferences from faulty data. For example, elven spirits are able to refuse Mandos's summons. No one can know this unless they actually try, though, so his misinformation here can be excused. He is also incorrect in saying that their spirits are weaker without their bodies – while this is a natural assumption probably backed up by flawed sources, the opposite is true. In actual fact, elven souls are more able to resist coercion when out of their bodies. Their spirits are also never forced into rebirth unless they express a desire to do so.

However, there are a few more things about Mandos that Fëanor leaves out, either deliberately or just because he doesn't know about them. For example, elven spirits do not communicate with one another in Mandos. (Since desire for communication is something that cannot possibly be related to the body, the only possibly conclusion is that something about Mandos must just be so unnerving that naturally gregarious elves are suddenly quiet. Conversation and interaction are usually beneficial to those still healing, so it can't be because talking will hinder the recovery process.) In addition, he either doesn't know or doesn't say that not only are spirits "reformed" and "corrected," their minds are edited and rewritten so that it is extremely difficult for them to even think about anything wrong they may have done in their previous life – in short, corrective brainwashing. Words fail me when I try to explain how astronomically _not acceptable_ this is, on several levels.

This chapter, for good or ill, is the last one in Many Meetings. Due to my recent discovery of these facts, I cannot in good conscience continue to write something so obviously out of character for Námo and the elves. In light of these and other realizations about the actions of the Valar and other characters, I am embarking on a quest to make my writing more fair-minded, accurate, neutral, and mature where characterization is concerned. Please bear with me while I adjust to my new writing style.

To those of you who have put up with the dozen-odd chapters of this, you have my apologies for my writing up to this point, and my thanks for putting up with me.


End file.
